


Pains

by daisybrien



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Early Labour, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Nymphadora Tonks, Holding Hands, Implied Genderfluid Characters, Other, The Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4499922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybrien/pseuds/daisybrien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had faced and fought the devils wreaking hell outside their little safehouse, sure of her strength and tenaciousness in the face of adversity; but she had always questioned how good of a parent she would be, pondered how well she could be able to nurture and care for her own child. </p>
<p>She’s terrified at the knowledge that she might not be able to do both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pains

It’s begins in the early hours of the morning, the smell of coffee brewing from the kitchen wafting its way into the sitting room where she lies, her mouth watering and itching for the smallest taste, yet her body too tired and swollen to think of moving from its perch on the sofa. It starts off with a lingering ache in her back, worse than that of the weight of the baby pulling her forward, knocking the breath out of her. It left her hunched over as she made her way down the stairs from her bed, had her prone the minute she had laid eyes on the soft cushions of the couch. It takes a while before she stops convincing herself she had just slept the wrong way, ignoring the stabbing pain spreading to her belly, seeming to squeeze around her pathetically before retreating into her back again. It’s only when her hands move to cradle her stomach, the muscle growing hard like stone underneath as she soothes her baby’s stiff movements that she considers calling Remus from the kitchen.

The whole room after that is a flurry of noise and worry, all seeming to buzz around her head like an annoying fruit fly. She does nothing more than sit snug in the blankets wrapped around her, wedged into the couch cushions as the nagging pain crawls forward from her back again. There are footsteps, the floor creaking and door hinges squeaking as people run back and forth, but she doesn’t bother to listen, just lounges out while others do the work, giggling as their faces grow wrought with terror in the needless panic. 

It seemed weird to her, almost unreal, like a dream. Shouldn’t she be the one panicking? It was her having the baby, after all.  
It takes a while to get used to it, know what to expect with each irritating cramp; her mother must be lying to her, their consistency of her contractions sporadic, almost nonexistent. If it hadn’t been for her mother nodding sternly as she described it, or for the unique prickle of pain so barely distinguishable from her usual discomfort, she may have just blown them off for her usual cramps.

It’s a learning process, she knows; her mother’s words nag at the back of her mind again, telling her it was a matter of feeling and watching how the body moves and reacts, listening to what it has to say and giving into its commands. She tries to do it now, sinking into the couch, pulling the blankets up to her chin in a soft, warm cocoon, closing her eyes. She forces her muscles to relax, all of her loose and limp but for the hard knot of her belly, tries to breathe deeply as the pain begins to prickle at her again, a pair of arms wrapping around her waist and squeezing. She rides it like a wave, breathes over it as it washes over her before giving out pathetically, retreating into her back like a receding low tide before it grips at her again, annoyingly persistent.

She feels unreasonably calm, each breath expelling the dregs of stress from her mind. The noises outside her mind are a blur, the world made of black and void around her, and there is nothing but the tranquility of her breath whooshing in and out, the stars blooming and twirling behind her eyelids, the calm blur only interrupted by those ever so irritating cramps.

Tonks doesn’t know how much time passes by as she drifts away in her little world of contentment, doesn’t even realize the house has gone quiet, or hear the creaking floorboards under tender footsteps until she is grudgingly pulled into reality by a hand on her shoulder. When she opens her eyes, Remus’ face is inches from her own, the wrinkles of his face deeper in his worry.

He offers her a small smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Go away,” Tonks mumbles from behind her blanket. She blows a puff of air in Remus’ face, smirks as he stumbles back like a startled puppy. “‘M trying to rest.”

“Don’t do that, Dora.”

“Would you rather I crush your hand in mine like a laboring woman should?” she laughs. She shifts, moving to prop herself up against the armrest; she groans as she does so, the massive weight of her belly once again pulling her down. It had seemed to hang lower in the last few weeks, her lungs grateful for the extra space to breathe but her back crying with the hanging heaviness it brought with it. 

“You don’t have to move,” Remus says cautiously, moving to help her up.

“Seriously,” she says, grunting. She ends up barely propping her head up, her neck bent at an awkward angle that pushed her head forward, giving her a horrid double chin in the process. One of her hands reveals itself from her cocoon, opening itself for Remus’ own. “Give me your hand. Help your poor, laboring wife in such a trying time.”

They both chuckle. Remus takes her hand, their palms slapping together as he pulls her up slightly, shifting the cushions under her. He props one under her neck, giving it the support in such a painful position. 

“You don’t seem like much of a laboring woman to me,” Remus says.

“I don’t even seem much like a woman myself,” Tonks says. She sticks her tongue out at that, the two laughing at the joke.

“Still,” he continues. His hands cup her own, fingers tracing the veins, blue and thin under her pale skin. “I can’t help but be concerned, especially with this whole waiting game with the baby.”

“Oh no,” she says matter-of-factly, shaking her head. “The waiting game is over. This is labor.”

Remus’ eyes grow wide, his eyebrows rising high enough to hide under his fringe. “Are you sure?” he stutters out, his hand tentative as it reaches out to cup her belly.

“Oh yeah,” she says, her own hands moving down to cradle the massive swell of her stomach. 

“You said you thought you were going to have the baby twice in the last three weeks,” he says.

“This is different,” she continues. She feels the tension in her muscles spread from her back to her stomach again. 

“You said that the last two times as well.”

The contraction begins – this time substantial enough that she grants it the satisfaction of calling it one - the vice growing tighter around her again. It’s slightly stronger this time, has some substance to the force it puts on her. She forces a breath through her nose, a small, muffled groan grinding out of her throat.

“Are you okay?” Remus asks. His hand shakes as it hovers over her; she swats it away before it can make contact with her stomach, another sensation that she didn’t need aggravating the pain that slowly sets in.

“Fine,” Tonks wheezes, shifting so she can sit up, lifting some of the pressure off her aching back.

“You don’t seem fine,” he says, his hands moving to cradle her own again. His thumb brushes the top of her hand in soothing circles, the smallest of massages to relieve the edge. He moves his clasped hands to his lips, mouth grazing her wiggling fingertips. His eyes watch her over their hold, wide and worried. She offers him a small smile, hopes it can calm him down.

“I told you,” she says, “this is different.”

“Well, I believe you,” he states.

There’s a pause between them, the two left in their own thought. It gives Tonks the chance to take in the mess of the living room around her, realize how many things were out of place. A pile of towels, neatly folded into a fluffy tower, sat at the foot of the couch. There were extra blankets and pillows piled onto the loveseat – not the small decorative ones, the big, poufy ones her mother would never use under the guise of having them for guests that never slept over, and had gotten upset at her for when she had fished them out of the closet to make forts as a child. When she looked down she could see the end of a bendy straw rising from a glass on the floor beside the sofa, one of her dad’s old novelty coasters shielding the floor from any damage. It was all her mother’s work, she thought, or at least was all directed by her. 

Tonks smirks to herself, musing over her mother’s slowly impending lunacy. Did she think she was going to have the baby in the living room?

“You nervous?” Tonks asks. 

Remus jumps at the question, his head snapping up from his wringing hands, her own a victim of his twisting grip. His face is tired, the lines deep, but his expression holds an inner radiance, a happiness that he seemed to be too hesitant to let out in all of its complete glory, mingling with his anxiousness.

“I should be asking you that,” he replies.

“I asked you first,” she says. 

He looks down at his hands again, eyeing the aged skin, the veins protruding from underneath, the scars of callouses and blisters crisscrossing over each other. She loves his hands, old and wizened, abused from the harsh years inflicted upon him, yet the gentlest things she has ever felt over her skin, even as they grew accustomed to her. They learn well, eventually knowing how to grip her and hold her firm, draw the neediest moans from her lips, or soothe her mourning body. His fingers intertwine with hers; she feels the bumps of his knuckles graze over hers to cradle her hand, and she imagines with a sore heart what they would look like cradling their newborn. With a thrill of adrenaline, she realizes the opportunity to witness it herself will be mere hours away.

“I can’t help but worry,” he says, sighing. He looks up at her nonetheless, his mouth curling into a meek smile. 

“What in particular?” she asks, watching the cogs in his brain turn behind his twinkling eyes.

“There is always going to be worry about your health, and the baby’s,” he says, one hand relinquishing his grasp on hers to rub her stomach before remembering her discomfort and slowly edging away. “I’m just worried about being there for my child. I’m so utterly terrified that I won’t be able to protect someone so dependent and trusting of me, someone I’ll love so much that I can’t even imagine it yet.”

“I know,” she says. She looks down at the curve of her body, still in utter disbelief at the knowledge that she has life in there, something the two of them had created despite the trials they had faced and the chaos of the world around them. She can barely imagine what they look like yet beyond the idea of balled up fists and chubby cheeks and tiny toes, can’t wait to be able to drink in every part of their undoubtedly perfect, new form, and so unspeakably horrified at the reality of the world they would be born into. 

She had faced and fought the devils wreaking hell outside their little safehouse, sure of her strength and tenaciousness in the face of adversity; but she had always questioned how good of a parent she would be, pondered how well she could be able to nurture and care for her own child. Her fight came easy to her, and her love natural and unending, but she’s terrified at the knowledge that she might as easily not be able to do both.

“You’ll try, though,” she adds, looking Remus in the eye. “We’ll both try with everything we have to keep them safe. Together.”

A smile blooms across his face, one that she can’t help but mime after him. “Together,” Remus says. 

“We’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Although,” Remus says, rising from his place kneeling on the floor, grunting as his knees snap, straightening out, “you should leave that to me, at least for now. You have much more to worry about.”

He gets up, leaning down a final time to peck a kiss to her forehead, his hand brushing through her hair before making his way into the kitchen.

“Amazing,” Tonks says. “You’re just going to leave your partner here to suffer in pain all alone?”

He turns around, flashing her a smirk from over his shoulder. “Of course not,” he says. “I just thought I would be a good husband and make you something to eat.”

She returns the smirk, laughing to herself as she shakes her head. He’s either very observant or found the quickest way to save his behind; either way, she still hasn’t had breakfast.

“Some toast would be lovely, dear,” she quips, settling into the couch to rest before what was undeniably going to be the roughest days of her life.


End file.
